Racial Injustice?

The Myth of Racial Injustice

Two events occurred over 1,000 miles apart on May 25, Memorial Day, that attracted national attention because someone filmed them then posted them on social media. The first occurred in New York City in the morning when Amy Cooper, a young Canadian woman living in the city, took her dog for an outing in the city’s Central Park. After having been cooped up in her apartment for several weeks, she wanted to let her dog out for a run. However, the dog parks were closed so she decided to let the dog run free in a wooded area called The Ramble (erroneously referred to as “The Bramble” in news reports.) While the Cocker Spaniel was enjoying being off leash, she was accosted by a black man named Christian Cooper who admonished her that park rules called for dogs to be leashed. She replied that she wanted to let the dog have some exercise and the dog parks were closed. The man scolded her – without authority – and said that she could take the dog to another park, but it was some distance away and she responded that it was too dangerous. The man then commented that “I’m going to do something, but you won’t like it,” which is a threat if there ever was one. He pulled a bag of treats out of his pocket and began trying to catch the dog. At this point she advised Cooper that she was going to call the police. He told her to go ahead and began recording her on his cell phone. He recorded her during the call, in which she said she was being threatened by “an African American” man and she believed he intended to do harm to her and her dog. She leashed the dog and while it was on a short leash moved toward her assailant. Apparently, Christian Cooper left before the police arrived. Just what was said between Ms. Cooper and the police is unknown, other than that they reported that there had been a disagreement between the two individuals. That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.   

Mr. Cooper took it upon himself to embarrass the woman. He sent the recording to others, including his sister, who posted it on Facebook. The recording went viral, and Ms. Cooper was identified by her dogwalker, of all people. She was slammed on Twitter and Facebook and reported for alleged “animal cruelty.” Thanks to Christian Cooper, her life was ruined. The dog rescue group from whom she had adopted her dog two years before confiscated it and she was fired by her employer, Franklin Templeton, because of her “racism.” (The dog has since been returned.) She began receiving death threats and her name was drug through the mud, both in social media and the commercial media. She was accused of threatening Christian Cooper when the reverse was true. Mr. Cooper claimed she was trying to have the cops kill him. Such crap!

The other incident occurred later that day a thousand miles away in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The teenage clerk at a grocery store named Cup Foods called police, in accordance with store policy, and reported that a customer had paid for a purchase with a counterfeit $20.00 bill. The bill was obviously counterfeit – the ink was still wet! Furthermore, the person who passed the bill was in a vehicle near the store. Two officers responded and found the vehicle with three persons inside, all black. After first removing the passengers and sitting them on the sidewalk, they attempted to get the driver out of the vehicle, but he resisted. When they attempted to cuff him, he fought but was finally subdued at gun point and cuffed, then pulled from the vehicle. He was taken to the sidewalk and put with his companions. Meanwhile, the officers called dispatch. A few minutes later another cruiser arrived and the two officers went to the assistance of their fellow officers. The arresting officer took the man, whose name was George Floyd, across the street to his vehicle. The suspect refused to get inside. He claimed he was claustrophobic and said he couldn’t breathe. He stiffened and fell to the ground. They got him up and he fell down again. He repeatedly fell down and kept repeating that he could not breathe. They managed to get him in the vehicle, but some kind of struggle ensued, and they pulled him out. It took three officers to restrain the 6’6” 224 lb. man. One officer pressed down on his back and another held his legs. A third pressed his knee on Long’s neck, a controversial but authorized procedure used to restrain unruly suspects. Floyd continued to proclaim that he couldn’t breathe and at one point called out the word “Mama.” His mother had been dead for two years. He was restrained for over eight minutes until an ambulance arrived and took him to a hospital, where he was pronounced dead an hour later.

A bystander, a 17-year old girl, recorded footage of Floyd on the ground with the officer’s knee on his neck. Another video shows him struggling with the police and falling to the ground. The girl posted the video on her Facebook page and commented “they murdered that man!” As with the footage of the Central Park confrontation, her video went viral. The Minneapolis mayor saw the footage and proclaimed, without evidence, that if Floyd had been white, the incident would not have occurred. He ordered the district attorney to arrest the officer who had his knee on Floyd’s neck for murder. The order was carried out – https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/6933248-27-CR-20-12646-Complaint.html#document/p1.

As a result of the video activists began protesting Floyd’s death, claiming that it was due to “systemic racism” in America. Media reports proclaimed Floyd to be a saint. Reports of who he was quoted people who had known him in high school – thirty years ago. There was only passing mention of his having served time in a Texas prison for armed robbery and home invasion.  There was no mention of anything in his adult life prior to his move to Minneapolis sometime after he was released from prison. He moved to the Minnesota city at the urging of a friend and worked as a bouncer at a night club that caters to blacks and Latinos. He took a course to get a commercial driver’s license but dropped out before taking the test for the license. As it turns out, he had a history of violence himself. He seems to have been in and out of jail for a number of reasons, some involving violent crime. He led a group of thugs in an invasion of a home in Houston and pistol-whipped a woman then shoved a gun into her stomach, demanding money and drugs. He was arrested and the woman identified him, leading to his imprisonment. https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8366533/George-Floyd-moved-Minneapolis-start-new-life-released-prison-Texas.html A video surfaced of him urging young blacks to stop the gun violence. (A pornographic video emerged with a character calling himself “Big Floyd” and stating that he is from Houston, Texas. The actor appears to be George Floyd.)

Although the assumption is that he died due to the pressure of the officer’s knee on his neck, the official autopsy told a different story. https://www.hennepin.us/-/media/hennepinus/residents/public-safety/documents/Autopsy_2020-3700_Floyd.pdf. The county medical examiner determined that he died of a heart attack due to a combination of existing medical conditions, stress and possible intoxicants. He was found to have amphetamines and fentanyl in his system as well as morphine. However, in the medical examiner’s preliminary report, the cause of death was shown as homicide. Floyd’s family hired black activist Benjamin Crump – who previously represented the families of Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner and Michael Brown – to represent them. Crump brought in hired-gun pathologists Dr. Michael Bayden, who claimed Jefferey Epstein was strangled, and Dr. Allecia Wilson, a black pathologist from Michigan, who predictably determined that Floyd died of asphyxiation. (Baden is always referred to as the “former New York City medical examiner” but he only held that post for a year FORTY YEARS ago and was fired by then-Mayor Ed Koch after numerous complaints about his work.) In spite of the autopsy report, black activists, the media and politicians continue to refer to Floyd’s death as “murder” even though there have been no convictions. The rhetoric prompted protests and riots in cities all over America as people call for “justice” for George Floyd even though the officer who had his knee on his neck has been charged with murder and arrested and the other three charged with accessory to murder. Protestors seem to be attempting to influence the prosecution, something they have attempted in other officer-involved deaths and other incidents when blacks were killed or wounded by whites. Protestors, activists, the media and politicians claim there is “systemic racism in America.” In fact, there is no such thing and their beliefs are the results of a half century or more of lies.

I grew up in the rural South, and while West Tennessee is not the Deep South, we had plenty of black people, or colored people as they were usually called, around. Most of the blacks in the community where my parents grew up and where we lived for the first five years of my life were descendants of local slaves who had been set free eighty years before I was born. Nearly all that I knew worked for the McNail family, who owned a large farm. Many of them lived in the old McNail plantation house, or they did until it suffered major damage from a tornado in the early fifties.

There were three categories of people in the region where I grew up – those who owned their own land, those who didn’t and merchants. Those who didn’t own land either rented or sharecropped. Sharecroppers and tenant farmers weren’t exactly the same – sharecroppers lived on land and worked it for a share of the crops while tenant farmers paid rent to the landowners. In rural areas, merchants usually ran small country stores. The more successful merchants usually lived in the towns around the region and operated a variety of stores that sold various things, from groceries to farm implements. Some people lived in the country but had non-farm jobs in town. Some owned property and some rented. World War II brought in a large Army ammunition plant that provided employment for many who otherwise would have been out of work. If a family owned land, they had the means of supporting themselves. They were able to grow their own food in a garden, raise livestock and grow crops that they sold for income. Without land, a family was dependent on landowners who let them live on their land as either sharecroppers or tenants. In most cases, sharecroppers and tenants were able to grow gardens and keep livestock. Unless the head of a family earned money in some kind of job, families were dependent on land for their sustenance.

It is commonly believed that sharecroppers were black. While some were, many were not. In fact, I only remember one black sharecropper around where I grew up at all. Other blacks I knew worked as farm hands for various farmers. So did a lot of landless whites. Most lived hand-to-mouth. Many, whites and blacks, left the South and went North or West where there was more industrialization. Black literature often refers to “The Great Migration” and implies that it was exclusively blacks who fled the South “because of lynchings.” In fact, for every black who left the South, there were at least three and possibly four whites. After the Civil War, the South was a largely impoverished area and unless a family owned land or could sharecrop, there was little employment. This was also true of young professionals who completed their education at a Southern university but were forced to move out of the South to be successful.

There was little crime or violence where I grew up. In fact, people didn’t even lock their doors! The only murder had occurred several years before I was born and involved colored people. A black man named Peg Robinson murdered somebody. He was finally captured by law enforcement in the bell tower of a black church. An old black man named Thorney testified against Peg, who went to prison for life. Thorney’s life was threatened, and he always carried a pistol in his back pocket. (I was alone with Thorney one time and had an opportunity to ask him about Peg but was too shy to bring it up.) Sadly, like the rest of America, the region changed after I left home and the drug culture spread, leading to an increase in crime.

There were no racial problems around our region when I was growing up. The only evidence of segregation was that white children went to one school while black children went to another. As for “white” and “colored” drinking fountains and restrooms, if there were any, they were in the towns. At the local country stores, any “drinking fountain” was a hydrant and “restrooms” were outhouses. There may have been separate areas in local restaurants, but my family never ate in restaurants. Any “prepared” food we bought was barbecue which we bought either by the pound or a shoulder and ate at home. About once a year, we’d go to Memphis to visit the zoo at Overton Park and have a picnic. There were probably segregated facilities in the park and zoo, but I honestly don’t recall. While there were only a handful of black families where I lived, once we passed Jackson and entered the Hatchie River bottomland, we were in an area with large numbers of blacks. Like the colored people I knew, they were descendants of slaves who had lived on the cotton plantations that had been established in the rich bottomland.

When I was thirteen years old, my family took a trip to Leesville, Louisiana. My uncle was in the Army at nearby Fort Polk. After we left Memphis and went south into Mississippi on US 61, we entered an entirely different world than the one I was use too. The land was flat and black, just like it was in the Hatchie Bottoms northeast of Memphis. The difference was the row after row of small shotgun houses along the road, with dozens of black children and teenagers sitting on the porches and hanging around in the yards. It was springtime and there were no crops in the ground yet so they had nothing to do. The house were no different than the ones I had seen in Tennessee – my family had lived in one when I was little – but there so many of them. It was like that all the way to Greenville, where we crossed the Mississippi into Louisiana and it continued all through that state to Monroe and on to the south. Whether the black families were sharecroppers or worked for the owners of the land, none of whom were in sight since they lived in either large plantation houses off of the main roads or, more likely, in the small towns, was unclear. I was an avid reader and read the Memphis Commercial Appeal, which came to our house by mail every day except Sunday, when it was delivered by someone who had the paper route. I had read about the “welfare mothers” in Mississippi who received Federal funds from the Aid to Families with Dependent Children program. A condition was that there could be no man around. It was believed that women were having children in order to get more money. There is one thing for sure, there were a lot of kids in those families! And there were Cadillacs parked at many of the houses.

I was ten years old when Rose Parks was arrested in Montgomery, Alabama. I don’t remember hearing much about it at the time, although the name of Martin Luther King began popping up. When I was in high school, college students in Tennessee began having “sit-ins” in an attempt to integrate the lunch counters at certain stores in Nashville and other cities. Students at Lane College, a black school in Jackson, decided to hold their own sit-ins in stores there in the city and to protest against segregated seating on city buses. I don’t remember anything about it. I now know that there were several sit-in attempts in Jackson, until the stores shut down the lunch counters and turned them into sales counters. The bus boycott never got off the ground. As soon as the city got wind of the plan, they removed the “whites only” placards from the buses.

There was another racial problem that I do remember, although my recollection is different than that later reported in the Jackson Sun, the regional newspaper. Problems arose in Haywood County, in particular, when landowners told the sharecroppers who had been cropping their land they were no longer needed. Farming had become mechanized and the mechanical cotton picker eliminated the need for large families to pick the white bolls in the fall. Mechanized farming only required a handful of workers in comparison to the large numbers who had been needed to hoe cotton in the late spring and pick it in the fall. Tents were erected in fields outside of Brownsville for the displaced sharecroppers. I remember passing through Brownsville with my dad on the way to visit my cousin in the hospital in Covington and seeing the Tent City. Articles written years later for the Jackson Sun claim that the tent cities came about as a result of politics rather than economics. They claim that black families were kicked off the land they had been living on because they had registered to vote. While it is entirely possible that landowners had been letting black families live on their land after they were no longer needed and became upset when they registered to vote and told them to move, that claim does not fit my recollection. The article dealt mostly with events in Fayette County, the county south of Haywood, which had been the site of several contraband camps during the Civil War, of which many of the former slaves had remained nearby. Eventually the tent cities disappeared as the residents began moving to Memphis, St. Louis, Chicago and Detroit.

Although I had some contact with adult blacks while growing up, I had only limited contact with those my own age. It was not by design but was due to distance. There were no black families living close to us. Occasionally, a black family would pick cotton for us in the fall. I remember one black boy my age who picked with us with whom I discovered I had much in common – we both liked airplanes – but I only remember being around him a time or two. As a rule, Daddy avoided hiring blacks to pick cotton because they had a tendency to stuff their cotton sacks with unopen cotton bolls, dirt clods, rocks or whatever else they could find to increase the weight. This decreased the value of the cotton at the gin and was potentially dangerous – rocks could cause sparks and set fires. There were times when whole cotton stalks came out of sacks when they were being emptied. He preferred to use local school kids who went around picking cotton to make money for school clothes. There was one time – probably after I left home – when Mother allowed a group of blacks from a nearby town who stopped by while Daddy was gone wanting to pick, and they were so profane that she was embarrassed to have them in the field with her daughters. Apparently, they were quite fond of the word for which “mother” is half.

I graduated from high school in 1963 and almost immediately joined the Air Force. The induction center was in Memphis. New recruits were subjected to thorough physicals and a battery of intelligence and aptitude tests before we were sworn in. The induction center served both the Air Force and the Army and tested recruits and inductees from West Tennessee, North Mississippi and eastern Arkansas. There was a large group of blacks present. One of the soldiers operating the facility told the group of us from the Air Force that they were mostly from Mississippi, and that nearly all of them were substandard and would be sent home. All draftees and recruits were required to achieve a minimum score on the Armed Forces Qualification Tests and very few of the young blacks were able to attain it. Many were illiterate and most were barely literate. Some had medical issues such as syphilis and parasites. When I saw them, I thought of the young blacks we had seen around the sharecropper shacks on our trip to visit my aunt and uncle.

When we got to Lackland Air Force Base and were assigned to flights, there were a number of black recruits in our flight. For some reason, our training instructors, commonly called TIs, chose a black recruit from Connecticut to be barracks chief. Some of the guys said they chose him to make a point with the white recruits. It seems to me he had had some ROTC training. As it turned out, everyone got along okay. However, the Southern black guys were a lot easier to get along with than those from places like Detroit, New York, Chicago and Philadelphia. Northern blacks seemed to have chips on their shoulders. After basic, I went to Amarillo, Texas for training as a jet aircraft mechanic. Jet mechanics was a popular field and several from my class asked for and got it. There were several colored guys in the school, although there weren’t any in my particular class. One of our instructors was a young black airman first class, which in those days was the grade just below staff sergeant. He was likeable and knowledgeable. From Amarillo, I went to Pope AFB, NC adjacent to the massive Fort Bragg. I didn’t have a car so I spent my off-duty time at the service club, a USO facility where we could drink coffee, eat doughnuts, watch TV, play cards, chess and other games or check out an instrument from the music room. A lot of black guys hung out there and I got along with them okay. After I’d been there a few months, I was fortunate to be selected to cross-train into the aircraft loadmaster field, which allowed me to go on flying status and aircrew duty. Fifteen of those of us who had arrived at Pope at the same time were selected. At least two were black.

This was the sixties and there were racial problems all over the country, and the military was not exempt. There were riots on a few bases and even ships at sea. However, I noticed that the guys I worked with tended to stay away from the troublemakers, who were mostly from the less-technical fields. I was involved in two racial incidents during my 12 years in the military, neither of which was known by other than a few people. The first one occurred while I was at Pope. I was riding in my friend Tom’s car with two of our friends and a new guy who had just reported to the base in back. I had been assigned as the new guy’s sponsor and it was my responsibility to help him get acclimated to the base. We had just left the squadron for the barracks and I was telling him about the base. I mentioned that there wasn’t a squadron of female airmen, or WAFs, but that there was one married enlisted WAF, a heavyset colored girl who worked in the dispensary. Jodie, who was from Indiana, blurted out, “Yeah, she’s a typical (N-word).” Mac, a colored guy from Georgia, was sitting next to him. He went ballistic. When we got to the barracks, he rushed to tell “the boys,” the other colored guys in the squadron, what Jodie had said. Now, this was 1965. That evening, there was a conflab on the landing at the end of the barracks. There was Jodie, me, Tom, Mac and several of the older colored guys in the squadron. The one who did the talking was a lanky North Carolinian named Ferguson. As the conflab went on, I got the impression he and the other colored guys thought it was funny. They all liked Jodie, perhaps more than they did Mac. I don’t think Mac was happy that they didn’t beat Jodie up. I considered Mac a friend then and still do. We would be stationed together again several years later and fly together. We never talked about the incident.

The second incident was more serious and could have been a real problem with major consequences, including injury and possible loss of life. I had gone overseas then came back to a new assignment at Robins AFB at Warner Robins, Georgia. Right outside the main gate of the base was Front Street, with a half dozen or so bars, beer joints actually, that were whites only. Actually, I don’t think blacks cared since they tended to want to socialize together but the fact that they were unwelcome at the Front Street bars was an affront. A day or so after Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis, I was at the squadron for commander’s call. Afterwards, my friend Gene Beck and I met at Cruickshank’s, the first bar outside the main gate and the unofficial squadron hangout. It was late afternoon when we went there, and we were both in uniform. Gene was a senior master sergeant and I was a recently promoted staff sergeant. There was racial unrest all over the country and even rioting in some cities, Detroit, Newark, NJ and Washington, DC in particular. Somehow, word had got out that young blacks on the base had decided to integrate Front Street. I don’t know how we knew, but their plan was to send a guy into each bar by himself and if he was thrown out, they’d rush in as a group and tear the place up. Cruickshank had a shotgun behind the bar and was threatening to use it if blacks came in. Gene, a big guy from South Carolina, said “Let me handle it.”

Soon after dark, a group of people came through the main gate and headed for Front Street. The bar was nearest the gate and was the first on their agenda. Sure enough, the door opened and a black airman came in. He was wearing the same tan uniform as Gene and I. He was a three-striper, a sergeant, one rank below me. Robins is a big base and we didn’t recognize him. We invited him to sit down at the bar and Gene and I got on either side of him. Gene bought him a beer. We – Gene did the talking – talked about King and how his death was such a tragedy. The black kid drank his beer and left – and the mob went back across the street and back onto the base. We had actually averted a race riot! The next day, I went to Fort Bragg and picked up a load of 82nd Airborne troops and their vehicles and took them to Andrews AFB, DC for riot duty.

I tell you all of that to tell you all of this. Starting in the 1960s, black activists and white academics have lied to America and to blacks in particular. After the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, Congress passed the Higher Education Act of 1965, which established a Federal student loan program, making it possible for millions of Americans to finance a college education. The act was a gigantic windfall for American colleges and universities and also for trade schools. Combined with the Vietnam Era GI Bill, which provided educational assistance to veterans, schools reaped a cash bonanza. In order to attract students, schools began offering new courses of studies; studies that were basically worthless but appealed to many – African history, African studies, women’s studies and studies aimed at attracting adherents of the Chicano movement, a movement among Mexicans who believe that the center of the Aztec nation was in what is now the American Southwest. Much of what was taught in these new courses was myth or exaggeration, if not pure fiction. African studies students were led to believe that some of the greatest inventions of all time were actually created by blacks, often slaves, such as the invention of the cotton gin. Another myth was that the steam engine was invented by a black (actually, a black inventor came up with some components later used on steam engines, but he did not invent the engines themselves.)

The accomplishments of blacks – and women – were exaggerated. Two examples are the exploits of the colored aviation units of World War II, the now-famed Tuskegee Airmen, and the female pilots commonly known as the WASP. Formed prior to the American entry into World War II, the all-black 99th Pursuit Squadron had a mediocre record in the Mediterranean Theater. At one point, the Army Air Forces considered disbanding the unit, but the decision was delayed. Meanwhile, three other squadrons had been activated and integrated into the 332nd Fighter Group – www.sammcgowan.com/332nd.html. The group performed adequately but not spectacularly in combat. However, a book came out in the mid-1960s that elevated the young Negro airmen to supermen status, claiming that they were “some of the best” pilots in the Army Air Forces. In reality, their commanders rated them as the least effective group in the theater. The Air Force allowed the myth to exist as a morale-booster for young black airmen. Not to be outdone, feminist authors began touting the role of women in World War II, including the civilian pilots of the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Service and the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots or WASPs. www.sammcgowan.com/wasps.html. The accomplishments of both organizations have been greatly exaggerated, but what the hell, the exaggeration served a purpose!

(Immediately after the war, the Army did a study of its all-black units. The study determined that blacks performed better when they worked alongside white soldiers and airmen. The officers recommended that the all-black units be done away with and the black soldiers and airmen be integrated into other units. However, the Army didn’t immediately accept the recommendation. As it turned out, the Air Force was first to integrate. Segregation in the Air Force ended soon after the former Army Air Corps was replaced by the Air Force, a new military service, in 1947.)

The civil rights movement of the 50s and 60s gave rise to the “activist,” a person who in many respects is like a prostitute in that they have no visible means of support, yet somehow manage to achieve power and, in many cases, wealth. Activists survive by advocating some kind of wrong that must be corrected. So called “racism” is one of their hobby horses. The term, racism, came into use in the 1930s when applied to Germany’s new racial policies, which were directed at various groups, nearly all white, that Adolph Hitler’s new “master race” considered inferior. In the true sense of the word, racism is a philosophy or belief based solely on race, meaning that those who ride the race hobby horse are racists themselves. The modern definition is a corruption of the true meaning of the word but, that’s what journalists and academics do. They invent new meanings to create confusion. A veritable army of black activists came out of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Most of them claimed some kind of religious credentials; they were ministers of black churches. Initially, black activists pushed for social equality for blacks. Their actions stood in stark contrast to the philosophies of Booker T. Washington, the founder of Tuskegee Institute, who advocated that the children of freed slaves should integrate themselves into society through education. Black activism follows the teachings of Washington’s adversary, W.E.B. Dubois, who preached equality through political action, i.e. legislation. Unlike Washington, who was born into slavery in Virginia, Dubois came from free blacks in Massachusetts and never knew slavery. He wasn’t born until 1868, three years after slavery ended.

The most prominent black activist in relation to the claim of systemic racism is pseudo-preacher Al Sharpton, who started out as a Pentecostal preacher while still a boy in New York City. Sharpton got on the racism bandwagon when he advocated that the reason Bernard Goetz, known as “the subway shooter,” shot four young black men when they tried to mug him was because he was a racial bigot. In reality, Goetz had been mugged and beaten previously and determined that it wasn’t going to happen again. He began carrying a gun even though it was illegal in New York. One day, four black men began harassing Goetz. Believing they were going to assault him, he pulled out the pistol and shot all four of them. After the shooting, he fled on foot and probably would have never been caught had he not turned himself in. He was acquitted of all charges except illegal possession of a firearm, for which he served eight months. Sharpton organized protests and managed to force a Federal investigation, which determined that Goetz was defending himself and race was not a factor. Undeterred, Sharpton has continued to protest and brand various violent encounters between blacks and whites as racially motivated. In one instance, Sharpton claimed a young black teenager had been raped and mutilated by white cops, but the incident turned out to be fake. Nevertheless, Sharpton has continued to insert himself into various incidents, with the most recent being the death of George Floyd. In fact, Sharpton preached Floyd’s funeral at a church barely ten miles from me. Sharpton has played a large role in convincing the nation that Floyd’s unfortunate death was due to an act of racism – even though one of the officers who was involved is himself African-American.

Why did Sharpton preach George Floyd’s funeral? He never knew the man and most likely never knew any of his family, although one of George’s brothers lives in New York. The brother may have called him, but it was most likely Benjamin Crump, the black attorney who has become the go-to lawyer for families of blacks who are perceived victims of “racism.” Like Sharpton, Crump is an activist who has made a name for himself as a racist (someone who focuses on race.) https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/2020/06/03/ben-crump-civil-rights-lawyer-also-man-beside-mourners/5274494002/ Crump makes his money by suing and collecting his third of the payments made by municipalities or, in the case of Trayvon Martin, homeowners’ associations. By inserting themselves in the George Floyd case, Crump and Sharpton changed the narrative of what is most likely a case of a suspect with severe medical problems expiring while he was being restrained to an incident motivated by race. There are several videos of the arrest, including one that shows Floyd plainly struggling with the officers while they were trying to get him into the cruiser. It was only after something occurred inside the cruiser that he was restrained. By the way, while there has been much talk of “choke holds,” Officer Derek Chauvin was not using a “choke hold” on Floyd. A choke hold is when someone holds another from the back with an arm around their neck. Chauvin had his knee on Floyd’s neck.

Thanks to Sharpton and other activists, millions of Americans are convinced that there is racial injustice in America even though blacks have become the most pampered race to ever exist. Yes, millions of blacks live in poverty, but most receive some kind of public assistance. Thanks to affirmative action, they have priority in hiring and are protected from firing for lack of performance. Still, crime is rampant in black communities with young black males being responsible for some 50% of the violent crime in the country. In most cases, the victims of black crime are other blacks. While black activists rant about the deaths of black men at the hands of cops, blacks are killing other blacks at high rates, with over 2,000 blacks shot each year and nearly 500 murders in Chicago alone. Overall upwards of 7,000 blacks are killed by other blacks each year. Yet Black Lives Matter advocates blame police for killing a handful of “unarmed” black men each year.   

No, the problem in America is not racial injustice, the problem is an extremely violent race whose members prey on each other. Yes, change is needed in America, but that needed change is for Americans to wake up and see where the real problem lies.

They’re Out of Their Cotton-Picking Minds!

Now, I don’t watch FOX News. In fact, I don’t even have cable – I got rid of it several years ago and went to a leaf antenna and streaming. However, I must say that the reaction to a comment by FOX contributor David Bossie to “Democratic strategist” Joel Payne that he was “out of his cotton-picking mind” is way out of proportion. Payne, who is of African ancestry, took offense at the comment because “my relatives picked cotton.” My response to that is – so fucking what? I picked my cotton, my daddy did, my mother did, my brother did and my sisters did and so did my grandmother, aunts and uncles, not to mention my neighbors. In fact, if you lived in the rural South prior to the 1960s when the use of mechanical cotton pickers became widespread and were able to get to the fields, you picked cotton. Picking cotton was so much a part of the culture that rural schools had split “vacations,” with school starting back in July for six weeks, then getting out for “cotton picking” in the fall.

Payne’s reaction is that of a northern black person with little real knowledge of the South and of the practices before his time. (He’s also a “Democratic strategist,” which says a lot.) Black northerners have been attributing racial prejudice to sayings common in the South for decades. For example, when I was in the Air Force, I had a roommate who was a mulatto from Harlem – his father was “Irish” and his mother was black. The first thing he said to me when we met was that I had better not ever call him nigger – as if I ever had any attention of doing so. (“Nigger” was known to be considered by blacks as synonymous with a “sorry” white person. Incidentally, the term “white trash” originated with slaves who used it to refer to poor whites with no land or slaves of their own.) That, however, is not my point. He went on a trip as a student with a sergeant instructor from Georgia who, like most Southerners, had a habit of calling everyone “boy.” My roommate took umbrage, but the sergeant, who lived across the hall from us, sat him down and explained that everyone in the South called each other “boy” and “girl” regardless of whether they were white or black. Although we never became friends, at least he seemed to understand that everyone wasn’t looking down on him after that.

It seems that blacks in the North have concocted a number of mistaken ideas. An example is the term “soul food” which came about in the 1960s when blacks from the South opened restaurants in New York and other northern cities and called their fare “soul food” at a time when blacks had started referring to certain forms of music and black culture as “soul.” In truth, what is now commonly called soul food is actually nothing but rural Southern cooking. Rural people in the South, white and black, made full use of the animals they slaughtered and grew crops foreign to northerners such as collard and turnip greens. Hog intestines were cleaned and called chitlins, which is short for chitterlings. White families ate them, as did blacks. Personally, I love chitlins the way my mother fixed them. She breaded and fried them and we ate them with her biscuits. Catfish were practically a delicacy at our house (blacks were famous for eating “rough fish” such as carp and buffalo.)

Payne seems to have taken exception to Bossie’s comment because his grandparents were sharecroppers. Again, so what? Share cropping was a means by which people who owned no land of their own could make a crop and living, and large numbers of sharecroppers were white. Sharecropping was a means of allowing a landowner to get full use of their land. Before farming became mechanized, a single family could farm some forty acres. Although it’s commonly believed – apparently especially by blacks – that sharecropping came along after the Civil War, the practice actually dates back for centuries and was and still is common in many parts of the world. (There is a difference between a sharecropper and a tenant farmer. Sharecroppers are laborers who provide the labor to raise a crop for a share while a tenant farmer rents the land from the landowner and provides everything necessary to raise a crop. Tenant farming is common today – my own land is rented to local farmers to raise a crop each year.) Sharecroppers were provided everything they needed by the landowner, including a house and plot of land where they could grow their own food and raise hogs and maintain a cow or two for milk.

There is a common misconception that picking cotton is hard work. Actually, while cotton-picking by hand is tedious, it’s not particularly hard and its definitely not backbreaking. Personally, I’d much rather pick cotton out in the open fall air then work in a foundry or factory. Cotton-picking is not a constant, year-long task. Cotton becomes ripe for picking in late summer or early fall, depending on the length of the growing season and when the crop is planted, and is picked over a 6-8 week period. The image of slaves or sharecroppers laboring in the fields from dusk to dawn 365 days a year is false; the actual days spent in the field for cotton-picking is more like 65 days, if that.

As for the use of the term “cotton-picking” as an adjective, the origin is unsure. So, for that matter, is the meaning except that it is used to add emphasis to a statement – for example, “She’s a cotton-picking liar!” Another common use is “Just a cotton-picking minute!” “You’re out of your cotton-picking mind” is another. However, in no way is the use of the term “cotton-picking” derogatory to blacks, as the media often claims. The only connection to blacks is that blacks picked cotton, but so did whites.

Political Whoredom

The Saga of Judge Roy Moore

As anyone who’s been paying the slightest attention to the media lately know, Judge Roy S, Moore, the controversial, devout Christian (Baptist) Alabama judge running as the Republican nominee for the Senate seat vacated by Attorney General Jeff Sessions has been “accused” of “sexual misconduct” (whatever that is) by a number of women in their 50s and 60s. They claim that when they were teenagers and in their early twenties, Judge Moore, who was not a judge back then, did something sexual to them. In most of the claims, all the judge did was take them out on dates or ask them out, with the impropriety being that Moore was considerably older than they, by as much as eighteen years in one alleged case. Now, with one possible exception, the difference in ages was not illegal and, in fact, by historical standards, wasn’t even unusual. Since the “allegations” came out in an article published in the Washington Post a few days after the D.C. paper came out condemning Judge Moore as “unfit for office” (they said the same thing about Donald Trump) numerous commentators have referred to Moore as a “much older” man, when, in fact, at the time of the allegations, he was actually a young man in his very early thirties and the women were in their teens and twenties. The original “accusations,” which really aren’t accusations of anything, were that three women went out on dates with Moore while another said that he had asked her out but she declined because her mother wouldn’t let her go. The first woman claimed that she went with Moore to “his house” twice and that the second time they engaged in what can only be classified as “petting,” and that at the time, she was possibly underage. (I say possibly because she alleges that she was fourteen at the time and the age of consent in Alabama today is 16. No one seems to know what it was in 1977, when she claims she went with Moore.) A fifth accuser went to notorious Democratic Party activist Gloria Allred to claim that Moore assaulted her in his car. Another jumped on the bandwagon and made no allegation other than that she claims Moore pestered her for dates and that she “got him banned from the mall” where she worked – she was in her twenties. Since then, another woman, one of Roy Moore’s clients, claims he “grabbed my butt.”

Before we get into this, bear in mind that these claims came out a month before the Alabama special election in which Judge Moore is the Republican candidate. That alone makes the claims extremely suspicious. The judge has held office in Alabama for 40 years and has made untold numbers of political enemies, not only in Alabama, but throughout the nation and in the media, because of his strong stands on legal issues. His national notoriety dates back to when he was sued by the ACLU for displaying a wooden placard of the Ten Commandments in his courtroom, but his local notoriety in Etowah County, Alabama where he grew up started soon after he began practicing law when he spoke out against the way local attorneys and judges were handling the courts. Animosity toward him increased when he ran for circuit judge and made accusations against the attorneys and the judges. Claims were made against him to the state bar association. His name became well known in the county and there was stiff opposition to him. It is also during this period that the claims made by the women are supposed to have occurred. Furthermore, the claims all date back to the late 1970s and very early 1980s, with one exception, the one made by his later client, which dates to the 1990s.

The earliest – in terms of when the incident is supposed to have occurred – was made by one Beverly Young Nelson, who claims that Moore offered her a ride home from the restaurant where she worked, sometime after December 1977, then assaulted her in his car. Nelson’s claim is suspect because she was not one of the women interviewed by the Washington Post reporters; instead, she engaged notorious lawyer and Democratic Party activist Gloria Allred to represent her and made her claim in a dramatic press conference in New York City, obviously for political purposes. Now, Nelson and Moore are residents of Alabama, the allegations are set in Alabama, and any court action would have to be filed there, which raises the question of whether Allred is even licensed to practice law there. (In fact, complaints against Allred have been made in California and she is under investigation by the California Bar.) There are holes in Nelson’s story. For one thing, she claims Moore locked the car doors so she couldn’t get out. Unless his vehicle had electric locks, which is doubtful in early 1978, he would have had to reach across in front of her or she would have had to raise up so he could reach behind her to lock the door. (Nelson says his car was a 2-door. She also says she thinks it was “older” which makes it unlikely to have had electric locks.) Furthermore, the purpose of door locks is to lock the doors so they can’t be opened FROM THE OUTSIDE! Most car doors are unlocked from the inside simply by pulling the handle. There is also the question of why she let Moore drive her home. She says she was waiting for her boyfriend to come and pick her up, but he was running late. Why didn’t she want to wait a few minutes? She says he showed up a few minutes after the alleged assault. She claims she had bruises and her clothes would have undoubtedly been disheveled but her boyfriend seems not to have noticed. Members of her own family have said the story is made up. Her stepson says she is not an honest woman and is out for money. A former boyfriend who knew her then has told the media he doesn’t believe her. A woman who worked at the barbecue joint Nelson claims she worked at says that she worked there three years from 1977-80 and never saw Roy Moore in the place – Nelson claimed he was a regular who ate there every night and always sat in the same chair. (Now, bear in mind that Moore lived in the country some 25 miles or so by road from Gadsden. It’s extremely unlikely he would have been in the restaurant at the time Nelson claims the assault occurred.) Nelson claims that Moore pulled her head toward his crotch. She also says he was trying to get her shirt off while he was trying to get her to his crotch, but then says he let her go. Now, bear in mind that none of the other “accusers” mention any kind of assault or threats. In fact, except for Leigh Corfman, none of the women interviewed by the Washington Post mention any kind of sexual contact other than kissing at all. Nelson claims she never told anyone because she was afraid Moore would do something to hurt her or her family. She says she didn’t tell her boyfriend because he had a violent temper and she was afraid he would do something. Regardless, there is no way Nelson’s allegations can ever be proven. They are alleged to have occurred 39 years ago and the statute of limitations have long since expired.

Leigh Corfman alleges that she went out with Roy Moore twice when she was fourteen years of age. She claims that she met Moore in 1979 in the Gadsden County courthouse when she went there with her mother, who had filed suit to give up custody because the girl had behavior problems (although Corfman doesn’t mention that in her account.) She claims that she and her mother were waiting to go into the courtroom when Moore came over and offered to stay with her outside the courtroom. Now, this doesn’t make sense (although her mother has corroborated the story.) Corfman was fourteen years old, an adolescent, not a child. Why would a 14-year old need someone to wait with them in the foyer of a courthouse? She claims that she gave Moore her telephone number and asked him to call her. She claims that she’d slip out of the house and meet him on a street corner near her house. She says that she went out with Moore at least twice, and that he took her to “his house” on both occasions. Now, at that time – and for years afterward – Moore was living in a mobile home, a trailer, he had purchased while he was in the Army on 16 acres of land in the Gallant community west of Gadsden, where Corfman was living with her mother. In 1979, he was in the process of adding-on to the trailer to make it into a house but it wasn’t until 1982 that it resembled a house. In fact, when he and his wife first married in 1985 she had to cook in an electric skillet in the washroom because he hadn’t built a kitchen (and didn’t for at least a year after their marriage.) Corfman remembers that the “house” was up a gravel road but makes no mention of him living in a trailer.

Bear in mind that Moore’s trailer was at least 25 miles from Gadsden where Corfman lived, one way. He would have had to drive around 50 miles, at least, to take her to his house then take her home. It would have taken them at least half an hour to get from her house to his and another half hour to get back, but she makes no mention of this in her accounts. For her to have gone to Moore’s trailer, she would have had to have been gone from home a minimum of an hour, not counting the time she spent there. Where the hell was her mother? Her mother had just gone to court to give custody to her father because she couldn’t handle her. Wouldn’t she have been curious, at least, to know where her daughter had been? If she wasn’t home, why did Corfman go somewhere else to meet Moore? She claims that the first time they went there, they did some kissing but then says that the second time, he put his hand on her breast – over her bra. She also says he went in the bedroom and took off his clothes then came out in his underwear. This doesn’t make sense. Why would a man leave a hot girl on the floor of his living room to go to his bedroom to take off his clothes? No, he would have either taken his pants and shirt (that’s all he took off) there in the living room where they were making out or would have taken her into the bedroom. In fact, a man would have removed the girl’s clothes first. Now, this sounds more like something a high school boy would do, not a 32-year old man! Or, from a Harlequin Romance.

There is a strong possibility that Corfman may have concocted a fantasy about Roy Moore after he talked to her and her mother at the courthouse. She said in her appearance on the Today Show that she read a lot of romance novels. Now, I’ve read a few over the years, although not recently. One of the topics of romance novels is of a young woman meeting an exciting older man and being swept off her feet while her bodice heaves. Corfman was a disturbed young teenager whose parents had been divorced for five years. She admits she lived in a fantasy world and that when she was going out with Roy Moore, she was experiencing a fantasy of being in the adult world. Now she says she was a child but she evidently considered herself an adult at the time. There is a very thin wall between fantasy and reality and our memories often concoct fantasies we later remember as real. For example, for years I believed a certain experience had happened to me while I was in the Air Force. I believed it and even wrote about it but then it occurred to me that what I was “remembering” was actually the image that came in my mind at the time one of my friends was telling about something had happened to him. I also sometimes have dreams about relationships I had with young women before my first marriage and between my marriages. I eventually realized that these women only exist in my dreams. They are not real. Leigh Corfman’s recollections of her relationship with Roy Moore may only exist in her imagination.

There is something important in the Corfman account – if her allegations are true, their actions were consensual. She says that on both occasions, when she became uncomfortable and told him to stop and take her home, he did. The only illegality was her age. She was younger than the age of consent as expressed in the Alabama Code of 1975 (the code still in force in Alabama.) However, she makes no insinuation that she had intercourse with Moore. Neither do any of the other women who have made the news. However, since Corfman was under the age of 16 and Moore was older than 19, he would have been guilty of sexual abuse in the second degree.

Corfman has some credibility issues for a number of reasons. First, she was a child of divorce, which causes problems for many children. (I know all about this – I had four children at the time of my divorce and it was very hard on them.) Corfman has admitted both to being involved with drugs – which affect the brain – and promiscuity. She was involved in a number of questionable activities as a teenager and as an adult and claims to have attempted suicide at age 16. Since her mother gave up custody to her father due to the girl’s disobedience, she was obviously already having problems before she met Moore. She is alleged to have made allegations against other prominent men – particularly pastors – and she may have actually been as old as seventeen at the time she claims to have been involved with Moore. She says she told people about the incident but her mother has said she didn’t tell her until ten years later, after Moore had become a circuit court judge. One of her friends claims Corfman told her she was going out with an older man and the woman says she warned her it wasn’t a good idea. Regardless of who she told, the fact remains that there is no case against Judge Moore – Corfman has allegations but that’s all, and the only place those allegations will be heard is in the media.

There are also problems with the time frame of Corfman’s claim. According to court records, her mother was in court to give up custody to her father because she had discipline problems. The court proceedings were on February 21, 1979, a Wednesday. The order stated that she was to be placed in the custody of her father, who lived in Ohatchee, a community some 15 miles south of Gadsden, on March 4, a Sunday. Corfman claimed that Moore called her at her mother’s and that she slipped out of the house and went to meet him on a street corner – which may have been more than a mile a from the house and on the other side of a major thoroughfare. She claims he took her to his house twice. There is only a 12-day window for Corfman’s proceedings with Moore to have occurred (actually 10, since she was at the courthouse on the first day and moved to her father’s house on the twelfth.) She did not mention that she left her mother’s home and moved in with her father. She say that when Moore called, she made excuses but never mentioned that she had moved, which would have been a logical reason for the relationship to have ended.

The third accuser is a woman named Tina Johnson who was 28 years old at the time of her allegation, which is supposed to have occurred sometime in the 1990s. She and her mother had hired Moore to represent them in her effort to relinquish custody of her 12-year old son (which means she was 16 when she had him) to her mother because she lacked the means to support him. She claims that as she and her mother were leaving his office, Moore grabbed one of her cheeks. Yet, she never told her mother and continued to use Moore in the case. I suspect that she just wanted to get on the #MeToo bandwagon.

None of the other “accusations” are actually accusations at all. Two are women who admit to going out on dates with Moore. All were in their teens but over the age of consent. One claims she met Moore when she was fourteen and that he asked her out two years later but she didn’t go because her mother wouldn’t let her. One, who was eighteen at the time, says that Moore took her to a pizza parlor and ordered a bottle of Matuese Rose, a popular Portuguese wine, even though she was under twenty-one. (She doesn’t seem to say that she drank any.) Then there is another, one Becky Gray, who apparently just wanted to get on the bandwagon. She was in her twenties when she claims she knew Moore, and working in a store in the Gadsden Mall. She claims that Moore asked her out several times and she complained to the store manager that he was bothering her. However, she makes no claim of sexual impropriety. She claims she “got Roy Moore banned from the mall” but the fact is, according to the mall manager, he was never banned from the mall at all. That he was banned from the mall is apparently a rumor started by mall workers who had seen him there then when he quit appearing – because he had left the area – they thought he had been banned. Bear in mind that this was during the time when Roy Moore was engaged in a bitter dispute with local attorneys and a campaign for county judge, which he ended up losing, and there was a lot of animosity against him. There can be no doubt that a lot of stories were being spread about him by his opponents (just as there are now.) Some Gadsden residents claim that Moore had a reputation for trying to pick up teenage girls at the mall, but no woman has come forward claiming he tried to pick her up except the one woman who worked in a store, and she was in her twenties. A former police officer, a woman, told a TV commentator that while there were rumors about Moore, no one ever made a complaint. She said it “was all rumor.” There is also the question of whether Moore was even going to the mall at all because at the time residents claim he was, he was engaged in building his house when he wasn’t at work as a prosecuting attorney. (This raises another issue – the kids no doubt knew that if they got in trouble, Moore would prosecute them.) Moore was living in a mobile home on sixteen acres of land he had purchased in Gallant, a small rural community some 15 miles west of Gadsden. Gallant is one of those places “you can’t get to from here,” By road, the distance appears to have been at least 25 miles just to Gadsden and the Gadsden Mall is south of town and even further from Moore’s home. Considering that he was busy building his house, it’s doubtful he’d have had time to spend at the mall.

There are some things about the current controversy that really upset me. Certain segments of the media and some politicians are branding Judge Moore as a “pedophile” and “child molester.” In fact, even if the stories about him were true, Moore would not be a pedophile. Pedophilia is sexual attraction to prepubescent children. None of the women who have made claims regarding Judge Moore were prepubescent. Even Leigh Corfman, the youngest, was older than fourteen and even if she was below the age of consent (to engage in sexual intercourse, which neither she or any of the other women have claimed occurred), she was still an adolescent and no longer a child. Pundits also refer to Moore as a “sexual predator” when, in fact, no sex is alleged to have occurred. Nelson claims Moore forced her head to his crotch but then says he “gave up” and let her go – and her account isn’t even believed by some of her own family members and friends. Critics also insinuate that the fact that Moore went out on dates with women still in their teens is somehow sordid. In fact, romantic relationships between older men and teenage women has been common throughout history. Texas Governor Sam Houston married Margaret Lea when she was 21 and he was 47; they had been romantically involved for 2 years before their marriage. Abraham Lincoln was nine years older than his wife Mary Todd. Mark Twain was ten years older than his wife Olivia. When my parents married in January 1943, my mother had just turned 19 and my father was a few weeks short of his thirtieth birthday. I have a photograph of my great-grandfather, a Methodist preacher, taken with his daughter on her wedding day – she was thirteen and entering a marriage that would last for more than half a century. I myself am almost twenty years older than my current wife – we’ve been married for seventeen years – and I was six years older than my first wife, to whom I was married for eighteen years. No, relationships between women and men many years older than they are is not at all uncommon. In fact, many girls are married in their early to mid teens, usually to men several years older than themselves.

Something also needs to be understood about the time frame of the allegations. The 1970s and 1980s were a turbulent and confusing time for young people. The so-called “Sexual Revolution” had started in the 1960s (or before) and was in full swing through the 1970s and into the 1980s. It was a permissive time, with sex as the focal point. Movies included sex scenes that wouldn’t have been thought of a generation before. Abortion became legal in 1973 and birth control was becoming common. Drug use had become rampant, with young people whose parents had thought beer was exciting smoking pot and taking other, more powerful, illicit drugs to get high. Leigh Corfman has admitted to having been a drug user – and promiscuous – as a teenager.

Roy Moore, on the other hand, had become a devout Christian at a young age then after graduating from high school had gone off to the US Military Academy at West Point, New York where he spent four years in a generally isolated, heavily disciplined environment. After graduation, he went to Germany for two years then straight to Vietnam, where the US was in the process of disengaging from a war that had become unpopular and where the remaining troops had become an undisciplined rabble. Although he had been an infantry officer, in Vietnam the young Captain Moore was put in command of a company of military police whose duties were to guard the stockade at Da Nang. Even though they were supposed to be in charge of disciplining miscreant soldiers, the men of Moore’s company were ill disciplined and resentful of him because he sought to restore the discipline he found lacking. His men resented him and he was fearful of being “fragged,” a practice that had become all too common in Vietnam. “Fragging” meant tossing a fragmentation grenade into the hooch of a hated officer or sergeant. One of Moore’s men fragged the company top sergeant but, fortunately, the man lived and recovered from his wounds. The culprit had announced that he was going to frag Moore, leading the captain to sleep outside of his hooch. There are rumors being spread about Judge Moore’s conduct as an Army officer. One claim is that he made his men salute, and thus violated a military precept about saluting when in the presence of the enemy. Well, Moore’s company wasn’t in the presence of the enemy. He was commander of a rear area MP company in charge of the stockade. Saluting is a military courtesy and, yes, soldiers, sailors and airmen saluted officers in rear areas such as Da Nang. How do I know this? Because I spent over four years of my life of which a good portion was in South Vietnam. After returning to an assignment at Fort Riley, Kansas, the young officer served out his military commitment then resigned his commission and returned to Alabama where he enrolled at the University of Alabama School of Law. Fresh out of the Army and a Vietnam veteran, Moore found himself among a crowd that had protested the war and hated the military, and the veterans who had served. His professors and some of his classmates ridiculed him. Nevertheless, he graduated and passed the bar, apparently on the first try, then returned to his home in Etowah County to practice law.

Just what Roy Moore’s relationships with women had been during his years at West Point and in the Army are unknown. He doesn’t discuss relationships with any women prior to his wife in his memoir. He did have female friends when he was in law school but whether or not he was close to any of them is unknown. He came back to the Gadsden area after having been away for twelve years. His female high school friends had most likely married or moved away, as is common in small towns and rural areas. He was thirty years old and it’s doubtful there were any single women around town his age so, naturally, his attention would have been directed towards younger women, some of whom were in their teens. Another Gadsden attorney believes he was behind in social development. However, it is a long stretch to say that he “preyed” on teenagers even though he apparently did go out on dates with at least two women in their late teens. However, there is nothing illegal about this as the age of consent in Alabama was sixteen. Moore says that he never went out with a young woman without her parent’s approval. Moore has been criticized for going to high school basketball games but it’s important to remember that he had four younger brothers and sisters as well as other younger relatives. Furthermore, except for Corfman and Nelson, neither of whom mention the mall, no women have accused Moore of sexual impropriety. If he was hanging out at the mall to prey on teenagers, there would have been accusations.

The rumor that Moore was “banned from the mall” is likely due to him leaving the Gadsden area after his loss in the Democratic Primary for the circuit judge position. In those days, primaries were usually held in August. He says he entered the race in June 1982. He had resigned from his position as deputy district attorney and the campaign had caused most of the local attorneys and judges to turn against him. He decided to take a break. While at West Point, Moore had taken up boxing and had lettered in the sport. He organized a boxing tournament in his company in Vietnam and took on all-comers, and won most of the bouts. He was interested in the Oriental sport, karate and decided to take his remaining funds and travel to Galveston, Texas to study the sport under Ishmael Robles, a champion competitor and instructor. He found work on construction crews to support himself while he spent nine months studying the sport. (He entered competitions after he returned to Alabama and seems to have won many of them.) After working his way through the various belts, he decided to leave Galveston and the country and travel to Australia. He had planned to go there on R&R from Vietnam but because his unit was transferred back to the States as part of President Richard Nixon’s de-escalation of the war, R&R trips to Australia were discontinued. Moore spent a year in Australia traveling around and working, including several months on a “small” 52,000-acre station (ranch) in the Australian Outback. The rancher’s daughter, who was sixteen when Moore lived with the family, says she was “very close” to him nd that he never disrespected her. Local kids who hung out at the mall didn’t see Moore, not because he had been banned, but because he had left the area. In 1985, Moore returned to Alabama and opened his own office with another attorney and friend. Soon after his return, he met his future wife and was married within a year. He was 38, his new wife Kala was 24.

One thing that has disgusted me is how certain “establishment” Republicans jumped all over Judge Moore without even considering that the accusations against him are politically motivated. I used to live in Kentucky and met Mitch McConnell a few times. I used to hold him in high regard, as I did John McCain, but they’re both disappointments, as is Lindsay Graham. McConnell and Graham are both Baptists, as is Judge Moore, but they seem to be Sunday morning Christians rather than true believers. Ted Cruz, who is a hypocrite if there ever was one, also came out against Moore. My other Senator, John Cornyn, withdrew his endorsement of Judge Moore. Personally, I am very upset with these men, all of whom seem to be more concerned with keeping Moore out of the Senate than with giving him the benefit of the doubt in what is obviously a politically motivated action against him. They were eager to throw him to the wolves, but as he’s been doing all his life, Judge Moore is not going down. The most recent poll, of more than 11,000 people, shows him with a 6-point lead over his opponent in spite of the allegations.

There has been a new development in this situation. Since I began this missive, Moore’s Democratic opponent has been running an online ad calling Moore an “abuser” and listing the names of the nine women who have made claims about him. Since the women would have had to approve the use of their names, this ad proves that their claims are political. They have shown themselves as political whores.


Red Blood of Patriots

Dong Ha Takeoff (2)

This morning as I was watching coverage of President Donald Trump’s inauguration, I was keeping track of Twitter. In his speech, President Trump spoke this line – “It is time to remember that old wisdom our soldiers will never forget: that whether we are black or brown or white, we all bleed the same red blood of patriots, we all enjoy the same glorious freedoms, and we all salute the same great American Flag.” Immediately after he said it ,  Conservative, Inc. writer John Podhoretz, who has a reputation for arrogance, tweeted that traitors have red blood too, which is true enough but the way he said it really pissed me off. The president’s line reminded me of my own experience with red, American blood, although it was Podhoretz’ comment that caused me to dwell on it for some time. I know exactly what the blood of our armed forces, whether patriot or not, looks like after it has been spilled.

During the late Southeast Asian unpleasantness, I was an Air Force flight crewmember, a loadmaster assigned to squadrons that flew the now-famous, but not so much then, Lockheed C-130 Hercules. It was sometime in the spring of 1967. I was nearing the end of my tour. A year before, I was flying on missions over North Vietnam and Laos dropping flares for fighters to attack trucks bringing supplies south to the communists who were seeking to overthrow the government of South Vietnam. I had returned to routine transport flying, or hauling trash, as we were beginning to call it. Our flying really was routine – hauling troops and cargo, but mostly cargo, around South Vietnam and Thailand. We were physically based at Naha, Okinawa but we’d go TDY for sixteen days at a time to either Cam Ranh Bay in South Vietnam or Bangkok, Thailand to fly airlift missions. We called the stints “shuttles.” We’d take off early on our first day in country, then start later and later each day until we were flying mainly night missions, then we’d have a day off and start over again on the day missions. After two weeks, we’d go home for a few days then come back and do it all over again.

On this particular shuttle, I was flying with Captain Tom McQuaide, an experienced C-130 pilot who had come to our squadron from a Tactical Air Command C-130 squadron at Lockbourne AFB, Ohio. Some of our pilots had come from other commands and other aircraft types, and were restricted to airfields with runways at least 4,000 feet long because of several prop-reversal accidents involving the C-130As we were flying. Flying with them truly was routine but when flying with an experienced C-130 pilot like Captain McQuaide, we got into the short, unimproved airfields out in the boondocks where the war was. (We actually got shot at no matter what airfield we went to – one night after landing at Tan Son Nhut, the huge airport at Saigon, the air freight people who met us told me they’d watch us come in and that we’d been trailed by tracer bullets.)

We were a little over half-way through our two weeks of flying. We took off for our first sortie late in the afternoon and had then gone to night missions, which usually involved moving backlog cargo out of Cam Ranh to the major airfields around South Vietnam, particularly Qui Nhon. We went north to Da Nang for the last part of our mission and after dropping off our load, air freight brought out a stack of five empty pallets – we were required to always have five pallets on the airplane to insure a supply of pallets in the country – and were supposed to take off and fly south to Qui Nhon to pick up cargo for Cam Ranh. When we reached Cam Ranh, we’d be finished for the night. I had just finished chaining the empties to the ramp when a dispatch truck drove up to the back of the open ramp. The driver stuck his head out of the window and informed me that our mission had been changed – we were being diverted to a combat emergency air evacuation mission to Dong Ha. Combat emergency was the highest priority for airlift missions in Southeast Asia. My adrenaline started pumping just at the words.

I was well-acquainted with Dong Ha. I took the above picture there in the fall of 1965 when I was at a tiny island in the Philippines called Macton on temporary duty from Pope AFB, North Carolina. We took a hit that day, although we didn’t know it until we got back to Mactan. Miraculously, it was only one of two hits I took in more than 1,200 combat sorties although we got shot at on nearly every flight. I had flown air evac missions before, but not a CE. In fact, although air evac was one of our missions, we rarely flew them because Army and Marine helicopters usually flew wounded men to rear area hospitals. As the dispatcher was pulling away, a forklift came up to  remove the forklift. As soon as the pallets were removed, I went to the front of the airplane and got the emergency escape ladder and installed it just behind the wing – the ladder was part of the litter system. Then another truck pulled up and the air evac crew got out, a nurse and two enlisted medical technicians. The nurse was male – only male nurses were assigned to combat missions. They loaded their equipment on the airplane and got on.

The nurse, a lieutenant, told me that Dong Ha was under attack and that a Marine had been hit in the head. We were to pick him up and bring him back to Da Nang, hopefully in time for emergency surgery to save his life. Casualties were mounting and there were other wounded, some in litters and some walking, and we would be bringing them back as well because the field hospital at Dong Ha was running out of space. After engine start, I continued setting up litter stanchions and dropping the straps from the ceiling that served to secure one side of each litter. We continued rigging stanchions and dropping straps while we taxied out and took off. Each stanchion had steps that could be dropped down so someone could climb up and reach the straps – since it was my airplane, that someone was me. The medical crew and I also dropped the nylon seats on the sides to have them available for walking wounded.

The flight wasn’t that long, not more than twenty minutes at most. Dong Ha was about 50 miles northwest of Da Nang. It sat right on the Demilitarized Zone. On the other side was North Vietnam. When I went in there the first time in the fall of 1965, there was nothing much there but since then, the Marines had moved in and made it a major base. Navy Seabees had laid 2,900 feet of pierced-aluminum planking on the dirt runway, making it an “all-weather” runway. C-130s went in there every day, but not normally at night.  North Vietnamese troops probed the base nearly every night; it was considered too dangerous for routine missions at night.

The firefight was still going on right off the runway when we landed. The guys in the cockpit saw the green and red tracers flying back and forth. I didn’t see them. I was too busy in the back. I was so pumped up on adrenaline that I went outside and started opening the doors that covered the gas turbine compressor, the auxiliary power unit that provided power when the engines weren’t running with the #2 propeller still coasting down. As soon as I got the rear ramp opened, Navy ambulances began arriving with the wounded Marines. The number had increased drastically since we left Da Nang a half hour before. I don’t recall the exact number but there were around a dozen or so men in litters and around twice that many walking wounded. I remember noticing that none of the men were black. I noticed this because civil rights leaders in the US, particularly Martin Luther King, were claiming that blacks were being killed and wounded at rates far in excess of their numbers.

The men had received only minimal medical care and many were bloody and still bleeding. In addition to the Marine with the head wound for which we had initially been sent out, there was at least one other patient whose life was in danger. While the medical crew took care of the litter patients, I helped the walking wounded settle into their seats and fasten their seatbelts. Now, I had always thought I was squeamish; Vietnam proved that I’m not. The men were all bloody but they seemed lucid enough. Once all of the patients were loaded, we fired up the four engines. When the flight engineer switched power from one generator to another, there was a momentary power loss. A huge sigh of dismay went up from the patients. The loss was only momentary and the airplane was only dark for a couple of seconds. Captain McQuaide took off right over the firefight. He reckoned it was safer than taxiing to that end of the runway and then turning around, and exposing the airplane to AK-47 fire in the process. By taking off over them, we’d only be in range for a few seconds. As far as I know, we took no hits.

There wasn’t anything I could do once we were airborne but keep watch on everybody. The medics and the nurse were tending to the litter patients. They were cleaning their wounds and nipping away pieces of flesh, although I didn’t notice it at the time as they were in the back of the cargo compartment and I was sitting in the first seat aft of the entrance door at the front. The nurse was devoting his attention to the Marine with the head wound. He looked up then started walking toward me. I knew the Marine was dead. He told me to ask the navigator for our coordinates so he could put it in the death certificate. He told me not to say anything to the other wounded. He left the dead Marine’s head uncovered. I felt very deflated.

We continued to Da Nang. We taxied to the ramp and were met by a blue Air Force ambulance/bus. They are large busses that had been configured with litter stanchions in the back and seats in the front. More medical personnel were with them. I stood by the dead Marine while the medical crew offloaded the litters and the walking wounded filed by. The nurse had put me there to try to keep the other Marines from realizing he had died. It didn’t work. The other litter patients had been offloaded and the one litter remained in place. The walking wounded had to go right by it and they realized something was wrong.

The bus pulled away and the medical crew got their stuff and went with it, leaving me with the dead Marine. Because we were only a few minutes out when the copilot called and advised that we needed Graves Registration, it was some time before they arrived to take the body. The nurse had given me the paperwork recording the man’s death. I didn’t cover up his head. I looked at him and thought to myself, “What a waste.” I wondered about him. He had the rough face of a coal miner or a football player. I wondered if he might be from Pennsylvania. I didn’t have a clue how old he was. I was twenty-one myself. He could have been older or he could have been nineteen for all I knew. One of the officers, I think it was Capt. McQuaide, came back to where I was keeping watch over the dead Marine and kept me company until Graves Registration finally came out in their olive drab ambulance to pick up the body, or KIA as they are referred to in the military, or were before the military became “sensitive.” After they left, I went outside to keep watch on the engines during engine start then came back inside and closed the ramp. Once the engines were started, I went to work stowing the litter straps and moving the stanchions to their stowage at the front of the cargo compartment.

It was after I had put everything away that I realized that our airplane looked like an operating room after multiple surgeries. Normally, I would sweep the floor and put the dirt in the trash can that was part of every airplane’s extra equipment. We were on our way back to Cam Ranh empty as we had already exceeded our crew duty day. I called Captain McQuaide on the intercom and told him we were going to need a firetruck. I’d never called for one before but had heard of others doing it. The floor was covered with blood but there were also pieces of flesh where the nurse had snipped them off of the wounds. The only way to clean it up was to wash it out.

By the time we landed at Cam Ranh, the sun was up. There was no firetruck but there was a water truck waiting for us. We pulled into our parking spot and shut down the engines. The maintenance dispatcher’s truck pulled up and the airplane’s crew chief got out. He bounded up the steps and took one look at his airplane, then turned around with his hand over his mouth and ran back down the steps, then started retching. The water truck driver took one look then handed me the hose and left. The officers and flight engineer had all left. It was just me, a water hose and a bloody, gory airplane. I started washing. The water mixed with the blood and turned red.

I grew up in West Tennessee about 75 miles from Shiloh Battlefield where one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War was fought. I’d been there once on a field trip when I was in elementary school. One of the features on the park is a pond called The Bloody Pond. According to local tradition, the waters of the pond turned red with the blood of the wounded soldiers, Confederate and Federal, who went there to drink and wash their wounds. As I washed the blood and gore out of the airplane that was now being returned to its crew chief, the bloody water reminded me of that pond.

Now, I don’t know if those young Marines considered themselves to be patriots or not. Seriously, I doubt that they did. Patriotism was not something young soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines talked about in those days. I’m sure they were volunteers, at least most probably were. Draftees only went into the Army as a rule, although the Marine Corps had started accepting them due to the lack of volunteers in a country where the youth were becoming violently “anti-war” and pro-Viet Cong. Nevertheless, we were serving our country, no matter our motivations – and we all bled red.

What upset me about Podhoretz’ Tweet is that he’s never seen anyone shed blood for their country and never will. He, along with the rest of the Conservative, Inc. crowd are good at using the word processor as a weapon but none of them will ever hear a shot fired in anger. They’re all talk. As for “traitors,” a traitor is a patriot to the country he or she supports. We all bleed red.

Remember Harold Martin?

Last Friday, FBI Director James Comey sent a letter to Republican members of Congress advising that the case against presidential candidate Hillary Clinton had been reopened because information had been found in “an unrelated case” that might pertain to the case. Now, this is earthshaking news that veteran reporter and Clinton biographer Carl Bernstein says can only be due to blockbuster information. (Bernstein has also said there’s “no way” it can be bigger than Watergate but then he has no knowledge of the information and doesn’t know what it contains.) Naturally, the Clinton campaign and Clinton are screaming foul and demanding “answers” even though the answer has been given – that Hillary Clinton is under criminal investigation. The New York Times came out and claimed that the information was found on a computer jointly used by former Congressman Anthony Weiner and his wife Huma Abedin, the Indian Muslim and former White House intern Clinton took under her wing back when her husband was doing the same thing with Monica Lewinsky. The Times and other news outlets, including FOX news have “confirmed” this information through “unidentified sources in the FBI”. While it is possible that the unrelated case is the Weiner case – he is being investigated for sending inappropriate texts to an underage female – there is another, more likely source.

On August 29, a National Security contractor named Harold Martin was arrested for possessing classified information. Martin, a US Navy veteran, possessed highly classified information dating back for two decades. Now, let’s think about the National Security Agency and what it does. Dating back to 1917, the NSA was chartered in its current form in 1952 by President Harry Truman. The documentation chartering the agency was (and still is) classified and the organization’s very existence was kept secret The NSA – often referred to as “No Such Agency” depends heavily on signals intelligence services in each of the military services. Until 1979, the Air Force, of which I was a part from 1963-1975, had the Air Force Security Service. The Army and Navy each had their own signals intelligence services/commands. The role of the AFSS was interception of foreign communications, particularly radio communications, using sophisticated listening equipment at remote sites around the world and onboard modified transport airplanes and bombers – the C-47, C-54, C-130 and C-135 and B-17 and B-29. Highly intelligent young airmen were selected to train as “Crypto” technicians through a battery of tests administered during basic training. (I was tested because I had taken Spanish in high school.) Those who were selected to train as linguists were placed in special programs that included two years at selected universities. Linguists and technicians were cleared at a level even higher than Top Secret, it was commonly referred to as a “Crypto” clearance but no one who didn’t have one really knew what it was called. I once met a young cook at Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina who had cross-trained into the aircraft loadmaster field from crypto. Although he had a high security clearance, his job change required a new background check. He had recently been married and the background check revealed that his new wife had family connections in a communist country. He lost his clearance and was sent to the chow hall as a cook!

There is another side to the signals intelligence mission that is not generally known. It was whispered about within the military. It is the mission of protecting US secrets by monitoring communications of American officials and military personnel. The first time I ever heard it referred to officially was when I went on temporary duty to Kadena AB, Okinawa (I later went PCS to Naha, an airbase some 12 miles away.) We were told during our orientation that all telephone lines were monitored and we should be very careful about what we said on the telephone. The admonition was repeated when I reported for my permanent assignment at Naha several months later. There were signs on the wall by telephones reminding that calls were monitored. Several years after I left the military, I worked with an Army veteran who had served in the Army’s counterpart to the AFSS. He told me that his job was monitoring telephone lines, and how that he and his buddy had once monitored conversations between a high-ranking general and his mistress. I was reminded again of how the NSA and it’s military agencies monitor communications when my son entered his plebe year at the US Naval Academy. Shortly after he got there, he told me to be very careful what I said in Emails because their Emails were monitored.

Now, NSA monitoring of communications is conducted not only of military personnel, but also of Federal officials, including Congressmen, Senators and members of the Executive Branch with access to classified information. There is no doubt that Hillary Clinton’s communications were monitored throughout her term as Secretary of State and probably while she was a US Senator since she was a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee and would have had access to classified information. Her communications may have also been monitored – and probably were – while she was Bill Clinton’s First Lady. It is highly likely, no, it is CERTAIN that Harold Martin’s trove includes Emails from and to Hillary Clinton.

Now, the question arises -if Hillary was discussing classified information on unofficial channels while she was SOS, why wasn’t she prosecuted? The answer is simple – while military personnel are subject to prosecution under the UCMJ, members of the Executive Branch are prosecuted in the Federal courts and any prosecution would have had to be initiated by the DOJ, which, like the SOS, is headed by a presidential appointee. Any information would have been “kept secret,” or covered up at the highest level.

What we’re seeing now is a struggle at the highest level, a struggle between Congress and the Executive Branch. We’ll see what happens.

Roy Clark may not have picked cotton, but I did


Although cotton is associated with large plantations, much cotton production in the South was and still is by small farmers with only a few acres of cotton land. While slave labor was used on larger farms and plantations, many farmers and their families provided their own labor.  After slavery was abolished, Although some call it a tree, cotton is actually a shrub that grows in the tropical and sub-tropical regions of the world. Along with corn, or maize, it’s native to the Americas where its fibrous seed protector has been woven into cloth for at least 15,000 years. Cotton was the product that made the United States into an economic power and it was cotton, not slavery, that led to the secession of eleven states from the Union thus precipitating the war now commonly – but erroneously – called the Civil War.

Although cotton is associated with large plantations, much cotton production in the South was and still is by small farmers with only a few acres of cotton land. While slave labor was used on larger farms and plantations, many farmers and their families provided their own labor.  After slavery was abolished, many land-owners contracted with landless farmers, white as well as black, to farm their land for a share of the production. The land-owner typically footed the bill for all of the production costs and the sharecropper got part of the proceeds from the sale of the cotton. Another method was to rent land out to tenants.

Although cotton cloth has been produced for thousands of years in various parts of the world, it wasn’t until Eli Whitney invented his cotton gin that cotton production finally became economical. Prior to Whitney’s invention, cotton seeds had to be separated from the locks in which they grew by hand, a tedious and time-consuming task. Once seeds could be separated mechanically, the production of cotton became a major crop in the southern portion of the new United States because American cotton was found to be superior to varieties found elsewhere in the world. Reportedly, by 1860 cotton accounted for three/quarters of US exports and was the driving force behind the US economy. Although cotton could not be grown in New England, the region had become dependent on Southern cotton for fiber for its mills, most of which were water powered.

Modern Americans commonly believe that growing cotton was a laborious task involving the labor of thousands of slaves working in the hot sun. In reality, this is not true. Yes, some aspects of cotton production required manual labor, specifically the hoeing of the rows to remove grass and weeds and the harvesting of the mature locks, but much of the actual labor was provided by animals, particularly mules. Mules and horses, and sometimes oxen, pulled the plows that broke up the soil in springtime and the cultivators used to plow the rows until the plants were large enough to shade out the grasses and weeds that came up in the fields. Until mechanical cotton planters were developed, planting was by hand as was hoeing, commonly known as “chopping.” Hoes are metal blades attached to wooden handles that are used to cut grasses and weeds at the roots. Once cotton plants reach a significant height, the fields are “laid by” and receive no more attention until picking time.

Although cotton is a perennial plant in the wild, it became an annual in North America due to winter temperatures that kill the stalk. Cotton is planted when the danger of frost has passed; the tiny fragile plants are killed if temperatures drop to the freezing level. This can be as early as February in Texas and the Deep South or as late as April or early May in Tennessee, Missouri and Kentucky. Once the seeds have sprouted and have emerged from the soil, the plants may be thinned although modern farming practices have made this unnecessary. Neither is hoeing necessary due to the use of “pre-emergence” chemicals that are placed in the ground at the time of planting to prevent the growth of grass and weeds.

Lawrence Browning

In the Twentieth Century farmers discovered that their production could be increased by defoliating the plants, thus allowing sunlight to reach the bolls thus causing them to open sooner and more fully. The advent of the airplane allowed defoliating chemicals as well as insecticides to be dispensed quickly without damage to the plants. Insecticides became an important part of cotton farming to fight boll weevils, which can destroy a cotton crop if they aren’t eradicated. Prior to the development of insecticides, boll weevils had to be picked off by hand.

For a century after the abolishment of slavery, cotton production was essentially the same, although by the 1930s farmers were using tractors instead of horses and mules for land preparation and cultivation. Fields still had to be hoed and picking was mostly by hand. However, by the 1960s farmers were starting to use mechanical cotton pickers as they became more readily available at more reasonable prices. Wealthier farmers had started using them by the 1950s. The proliferation of mechanical cotton pickers came about at the same time as the civil rights movement and probably had a lot to do with it.  Cotton pickers eliminated the need for human pickers and thus put a lot of share croppers out of work. With no need for share croppers, landowners told them to get off of their land. Many ended up in tent cities until they were moved into towns or migrated to cities such as Memphis and St. Louis or to the North where many became part of a new welfare class when they were unable to find work due to lack of education and employability beyond the performance of menial tasks.


As I said in the title, Roy Clark may not have picked cotton but I did. In fact, I was involved in every aspect of the growing and picking of cotton as a boy growing up in West Tennessee except planting, and then only because Daddy wanted to do it himself. We were mechanized farmers, except that we didn’t have a cotton picker. Daddy got one a year after I left home for the Air Force. As soon as I was old enough, at about ten or eleven, I started driving a tractor. At first, I mostly pulled a harrow but I eventually began disking and eventually breaking ground in the spring. Our plows were disc breakers rather than conventional turning plows but they did the same thing. Once the ground had been turned over, we went over it with a disc harrow, an implement with several rows of discs that broke up the ground into small clods. Sometimes we drug a spike harrow behind the disc to break the clods into smaller ones but sometimes we went back with the disc. Once the ground was prepared, the cotton was planted. We had a set of cotton planters that mounted on the sides of the tractor. Each side had two hoppers, one for fertilize and one for seed. The planters had plates on the bottom that were designed to space the seeds a certain distance apart.

Once the cotton was “big enough to plow,” meaning the stalks were tall enough that they wouldn’t be covered by dirt tossed up by the cultivators, we went through the fields row by row. We usually used scratchers, which were basically metal spring leafs with a small plow point on the end but we also had cultivators that used small plows. Plowing broke the surface and allowed air into the ground; it also covered the grass and weeds in the rows and cleared those from in between them. We plowed for the last time around the first of July then left the fields alone except for monitoring for boll weevils and other insects or blights.

Hoeing cotton or corn is not particularly strenuous work. We went down the rows, usually taking two at a time, and cut out the weeds and grass. I personally preferred to how corn because young cotton stalks are easy to catch with the corner of the hoe. We usually hoed in May and June when the weather wasn’t terribly hot yet. We had no hired hands so we did all of the work ourselves, sometimes with assistance from my aunts and uncles. We had a split vacation from school. We got out at the beginning of May and remained out until early July when the cotton would be laid by. We went back to school for the new year and remained in school until late September, when we got out for “cotton picking.” We were out for six weeks then went back to school in early November. Not only did those of us who lived on farms pick cotton, so did boys and girls from the surrounding towns as well as those who lived in the country but whose fathers weren’t farmers. As I recall, the going rate for cotton pickers was a nickel a pound. An average of 100 pounds a day was a pretty good average, with some pickers doing a lot better and others doing less. I knew a few people who could pick 200 pounds a day – sometimes – but they had to get to the field early and leave late to do it. I once saw something on the Internet where someone claimed they picked 600 pounds a day – uh, uh!


While I can’t speak for those who picked cotton in the Deep South, in West Tennessee the weather conditions at picking time were pleasant. We’d start picking around the end of September and be finished by early November, although we’d go back again to pull bolls. Morning temperatures were cool and were usually in the seventies or low eighties during the day. Because wet cotton causes problems with the gin, we didn’t start picking until after the dew had burned off, usually around 10:00 AM. We stayed in the field until it was getting too dark to pick or Daddy decided it was time to quit for the day. We had no hired hands but family and neighbors often helped us, usually teenagers and older children. Some kids picked cotton to make money for school clothes but I’m sure some were boosting their family income. Picking cotton was not an unpleasant experience. Yes, we pulled a cotton sack behind us and we often were on our knees, depending on the height of the stalks, but cotton isn’t very heavy and a full sack didn’t usually weigh much more than fifty pounds. When someone’s sacks started getting full, we’d head for the trailer to weigh-in and empty it. The first weigh-in was around dinner time (lunch to Yankees) so we’d take a break to eat the sack lunch everyone had brought with them. Our family usually ate tuna or potted meat sandwiches – Mother sometimes mixed them together. Sometimes we had Vienna sausage. Some of the neighbor kids would stop by the store to buy something to take to the field with them. Some of those who  picked with us were teenage girls. Some were friends but some I barley knew before I met them in the cotton patch. Having them in the field increased my productivity because I’d pick faster to stay close to them. This is no lie – one girl I knew would come to pick wearing makeup. We were in about eighth grade at the time and I suppose it was for my benefit.

In some respects, picking cotton was a social event not unlike quilting bees and barn-raisings. Someone was always telling a story and we sometimes sang while we picked. Daddy would sometimes talk about his experiences in the war. I picked faster so I could stay close enough to him to hear what he was saying. I’d also pick faster to be closer to some of the older teenage boys (and some of the girls) who picked with us. There was sort of contest to see who picked the most each day. That was something I knew I was never going to win. I only remember a time or two when I broke the 100 lbs a day. I knew full well that I wasn’t going to be a professional cotton picker.

The skies were generally clear. if there were clouds, they were usually high cirrus clouds. Cotton picking time coincided with Indian summer, which is a great time to be outside. My main complaint was that it also coincided with squirrel and dove season. I often prayed for rain so I could go to the woods. If I recall correctly, we picked our fields at least twice then came back to pull bolls. Farmers today only pick a field once, and they use mechanical cotton pickers. Hundreds of dollars worth of cotton is often left lying on the ground where it spilled out when the operator was emptying the bin into the trailer and a lot of cotton is left on the stalks. I guarantee you that our stalks were bare when we finished pulling bolls. We didn’t get as much per pound from the gin for bolls. That money was our Christmas money.

There were potential hazards in the cotton patch, particularly the green caterpillars with the acid-filled spines we called “stinging worms.” if you accidentally brushed against one, you got a painful welt. They were one reason everyone wore  long sleeves. We wore cotton gloves to pull bolls but not to pick the cotton from the boll. Hands got chapped and somebody usually had a bottle of Corn Husker’s oil. Occasionally, someone would see a snake but they were usually non-poisonous. The copperheads were usually in the woods. Most of the snakes we saw were black or blue racers – and they raced off as soon as they were startled.

The cotton patch began changing in the 60s. I left home in July to join the Air Force, which I had wanted to do since I was about 13. It wasn’t but a couple of years later that Daddy bought a cotton picker. It was used, an International Harvester mounted on a Farmall C tractor frame and only picked one row at a time. But that was all it took. I remember being home on leave once right after he got it and thinking that if we’d had one sooner, I might not have left home. He also started growing soybeans which, like corn, are harvested mechanically. (We had neighbors who picked their corn by hand but Daddy bought a corn picker when I was still a little boy. Not only did he pick our corn, he picked corn for others as well.) More and more cotton pickers were appearing all over the South, and their advent meant the end of a lot of things, including share-cropping and split vacations for school children since kids were no longer needed in the fields to pick cotton. In fact, the cotton picker probably had more of an effect in the South than the civil rights movement.

My parents have been dead for some time, my dad since 2003 and my mom since 2008. Daddy farmed as long as he was able then started renting out the land to cotton farmers. After Mother died, their two farms were divided between me and my brothers and sisters. The same farmers who had been growing cotton on my part continued to farm it, until this year. They decided to get out of the business after a couple of bad crop years. Some other farmers are working it now. They’re growing corn.

Why I Detest Fireworks

Long ago, in a land far away, I saw my share of fireworks, only those fireworks were deadly and every one of them was designed to kill somebody and sometimes that somebody was me. Now, I am sitting here in my den and fireworks are going off all over the place – even though it is against the law and the rules of the HOA for our development to set them off. They are supposed to only be used by professional pyrotechnics experts in carefully monitored displays. But that doesn’t stop these idiots. More than likely some of the booms and bangs we’re hearing are actual gunshots. Every Fourth of July and New Years somebody is hit by a round falling back to earth. Earlier today, we went to friends for burgers and socializing. When we got home, our little dog had diarrhea that was probably caused by fireworks. She is a very sensitive little dog and has always been frightened by them. Our dogs are inside but I guarantee there will people missing their pets in the morning.

Some of the explosions were damn close. One sounded like it went off right over our house. We heard something hit the roof. I went outside to make sure the roof wasn’t on fire. It sounded just like a war, except there were more explosions. Although I was told by a shrink that I don’t have enough symptoms for a diagnosis of PTSD, I became very agitated. I wanted to go upstairs and get my shotgun and go around to my neighbors house and mow the bastards down. They fired off a rocket and it exploded right above me. I could hear particles whistling just over my head.

Yes, fireworks are pretty but for most Americans, that’s all they are. They’ve never been shot at and have never used explosions to kill someone. After all, they’re supposed to represent the rockets seen over Fort McHenry during the War of 1812. Ironically, no fireworks were shot off on the Fourth of July in 1776. In fact, no one even knew that a group of rebels in Philadelphia had signed a document declaring independence from Britain. For one thing, the document had yet to be signed. The document on display in Washington, DC was signed on August 2, 1776. Supposedly, somebody signed something on July 4 but if they did, no one knows what happened to it.

If you gotta have fireworks, go watch a public display. Don’t fire them over my house!

Getting Started

I decided to start a Word Press blog on a whim. Actually, I should be in bed but I saw someone else’s blog and decided to start one of my own rather than posting my thoughts on my own web site (www.sammcgowan.com). I’ve got a lot to say about a lot of things. We’ll see how things go.

I’ve slept on this and am  going to update the post. First, let me tell you a little about me. My name is Sam and I grew up in West Tennessee (not west Tennessee, it’s a proper name.) I’ll be 70 my next birthday. Right after my high school graduation in 1963, I enlisted in the Air Force and spent 12 years. No, I did not retire – that takes 20 years. I just got out because I was tired of military politics. Unlike the majority of Air Force “airmen”, I actually flew. I started out in aircraft maintenance then became an aircraft loadmaster and spent 11 of my 12 years on aircrew duty. I saw a lot of the world, particularly Southeast Asia. I am what the media likes to call a “decorated combat veteran,” whatever that means. After my first marriage, my new wife and I decided we wanted to become involved in church. She was Episcopalian and I had been raised Southern Baptist. We joined an independent Baptist church in Dover, Delaware and our lives changed drastically. I had already decided not to reenlist so I got out in July 1975 and we went back to Tennessee, back for me at least since my wife was from Virginia. That marriage lasted almost 20 years. My current  – and last – wife is a Chicago native who became a transplant to Texas, where we now live.

While I did not graduate from college, I have enough credits that I probably could had I elected to. Although I was unable to take off-duty courses for my most of my time in the military, I was able to take some during my last year or so before I got out, courses in aviation management. After I was discharged, I enrolled at Tristate Baptist College in Memphis where I studied systematic theology and the Bible. Some would say I am an accomplished author since I’ve authored, what, ten books? Right now I’m working on two more.

When I was a little boy, I decided I wanted to fly airplanes when I grew up. While stationed on Okinawa, where I rarely spent more than three days at a time, I started taking flying lessons but didn’t solo until I returned to the States in 1967. Over the next 43 years I logged over 16,000 hours in the air as a pilot, most of it professionally. I started flying corporate jets in 1991 and flew them until I quit flying for medical reasons in 2010.

My politics are what many call “classical liberalism,” the political philosophy that goes back to John Locke. The main principle of classical liberalism is limited government. While I believe in the rights of the individual, I’m not into the modern concept of “group identity.”  My ancestors date back to the 1600s in America, some of them at least. Some go back at least 15,000 years. My ancestry is Scottish, Irish, German, English – possibly Welsh – and Cherokee. My great-grandmother was at least half Cherokee and probably 3/4s. I do not like the term “native American.” Any child born in America is a native. Although I grew up in the South, my parents were Republicans, my dad all his life and my mother from right after they were married. My mother came from a family of Democrats, some of whom would have voted for Satan if he ran on the Democratic ticket. When I was in my 50s, I learned that one of my great-grandfathers was a night-rider. I suppose that means he was active in the Klan, the rejuvenated Klan, not the original. My parents were in favor of school integration. However, after blacks started marching and making demands, they became less enthusiastic about the “civil rights movement.” I am all for rights for everyone but I oppose special treatment for someone just because they happen to be of a particular ethnicity or race or have some kind of sexual quirk. I do not own a Confederate flag, never have and never intend to own one but I don’t believe it is a “hate symbol” nor do I believe the men who fought for the South and the women who supported them are “traitors.” There is a movement among Northerners today – and some Southern Democrats – to marginalize the South although I don’t really know why unless it is due to jealousy.

I plan to blog about all kinds of things. Some posts may be political but most will not. This will be my place to vent and take time off from my writing.

Sam McGowan 7/1/2015